wandering in the dusk
by hyacinthian
Summary: This is a war of a different kind. Pre to post epilogue. HarryHermione.


This is a war of a different kind.

They meet in the park in December - it's snowing, big soft flakes that float down from the sky. He rubs his hands to try and keep warm, though he knows that it could easily be fixed by magic. Sometimes, he's grateful for his non-magical upbringing - it keeps everything in perspective.

"Harry!" she calls, waving as she trudges through badly shovelled snow drifts.

He smiles as she lifts two paper cups - she's thought ahead and brought pumpkin juice. "Hermione," he says, "You always did think ahead."

She hands him the cup as she arrives with a shiver, turning to dust the park bench off. "Or maybe you just go charging in to whatever situation you have planned."

He hugs her then, arms wrapping around her. "How are you? It feels like I haven't seen you in ages."

She smiles warmly. "It has been a while."

She leans into him comfortably as they sit and enjoy the weather, her head nestled against his shoulder. She breathes it in with wonder - the smell of the snow, the chill air, and the clean smell of his soap.

"How's the new flat?" he asks.

"It's good," she says, turning away for a second, her hair tickling his nose. "We're not all moved in yet, though."

He blinks uncomfortably at the new pronoun, the reminder of who she lives with. "How's it going? The unpacking?"

She has a vague smile, her eyes unfocused as she whispers, "Well, Ron has a lot of jumpers."

He allows a small smile. "Molly."

She shivers then, face passive, before standing. "Come on, Harry. It's freezing."

He reaches out, takes her hand. "I know this great bookstore," he says, and it's worth it for the bright smile on her face.

In the bookstore, as Hermione scans the aisle for something that piques her interest, he shrugs and murmurs, "You are coming for dinner, right?"

She turns, "Hm?"

"Dinner? Food? With me? It'll probably have to be takeaway, but--"

The gesture feels intimate, but Harry's her best friend, she repeats in her head, of course they're going to be this close. Just the way it makes her skin prickle tells her that it's not just friendship, has never been just friendship, and the idea of wine and dinner and a film with Harry makes her warm. And she knows, she _knows_ from living with Ron and going to visit the Weasleys every so often that Ginny and Harry's relationship is anything but stable - they've been breaking up and making up and part of her can't help but think that this is another manifestation of Harry's hero complex - he has to be saving somebody, anybody, even if it's at the expense of his own happiness. (But this isn't her, it isn't, because of course she doesn't think about how happy he should be when people keep telling her that they are perfectly happy. Ginny and Harry - they look like James and Lily, James and Lily -

She never does tell anyone that Hagrid sends her the occasional picture with a secret smile - reminding her how much Lily loved to read, loved to study.

She doesn't think about it that much.

Honestly.)

He takes her pause as hesitation because then he is rallying -

"Oh, come on, Hermione. I haven't seen you in ages. You'll at least come over for dinner.

She smiles. "Of course, Harry."

Dinner is Chinese, lo mein and sweet and sour chicken and Szechuan beef. She tries to teach him how to use chopsticks properly - he still is resolutely using his fork. He feeds her a piece of beef and she laughs - they watch Sliding Doors. He talks about John Hannah and she talks about how she can't stand Gwyneth Paltrow.

The red wine they have makes her feel warm - she shrugs off her jacket and toes off her shoes and socks, and sitting there, barefoot, leaning against him, feels right.

He tucks her hair behind her ears and teases her and her lips are stained red from the wine. He's sure she's a little tipsy.

"Oh, Harry," she laughs, "Come off it. Like I would be so easily - whatever."

He laughs. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, trying to keep a straight face. "I didn't realize you were such a raging alcoholic. I"ll mark that down for next time."

She pokes him as threateningly as she can manage in the chest. "Shut it."

And then she is draping herself over him, hair all over the place, Her lips hover over his before she is dipping down, touching her lips to his. She tastes sweet and he closes his lips around hers, tasting her.

When she pulls away, she rests her head against his neck for a second. "Harry, don't you ever wonder what it'd be like if our lives were different?"

He kisses the top of her head. (It's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he can't be perfect ...) "You can still change it. You're not like 90-years-old."

She snorts. "You have such a way with words."

He kisses her again, tongue sliding against the planes of her teeth as she groans and slides her hips against his. He can't think and her subtle movements against him aren't helping.

She pulls away, presses a wet kiss to his neck. "I miss you," she whispers. "Why'd you move so far away?"

He twines his fingers in her hair. "I couldn't--"

"You couldn't what?"

He huffs, trying to think of the right words. "I need you. And being that close to you, it's too much."

He's terse, but she's silent.

"Stupid boy," she whispers, pressing her lips to his again. "I love you, you know."

He wonders if it's the wine talking. He massages her scalp with his fingertips and she leans into him. "I know."

"We survived a war," she whispers, amazed. "And we still can't do this right."

"What?"

"Life."

"We're adults now. That's how it works. You work and you're unhappy."

She smiles against him. "I thought your teenage angst phase was over." She pokes his shoulder. "You need to stop watching so many of those independent films."

He chuckles. "I wish things wouldn't change," she says.

"It's the law of the universe."

"We're happy, though, aren't we, Harry?"

He kisses her, hands moving down to her hips, holding her against him. She smiles against his lips. "Yeah, we're happy."

* * *

When she gets married, neither of them act like it's unexpected. Her smile is thin and his smile is too big and their faces feel clunky with false emotion -

"I'm so happy for you," he says.

"Thank you," she says.

Whispers, whispers - when he takes her arm and leads her down the aisle in the rehearsal because her parents are delayed, it brings back too many memories.

And sitting outside together, the day before she gets married, they watch the sunset in silence; their hands are close, but they never touch.

"You know why I had to."

"You love him?"

She doesn't say anything.

"You love me?"

She doesn't say anything.

And the bitterness in his voice can't be filtered, the harshness: "Well, that's all that matters then."

(She cries that night when no one can see her.)

* * *

When he announces his engagement to Ginny, she swallows the dull ache she feels, and congratulates him.

She drinks two bottles of wine as Ron marvels about how he and Harry will really be brothers now.

She can't think.

The day Harry and Ginny get married, he and Hermione sit and watch another sunset.

He smokes a fag as she stares off at the pink and purple sky.

"You love her?"

"Yes."

And she can feel the knife twisting within her, because she knows, she knows that she lied to him and this is worth that and all the other times -

"You love me?"

He doesn't say anything.

She can't stop herself - "Don't be such a coward, Harry. Say how you really feel."

He bites down on the filter, blows out the smoke forcefully. "You're a brilliant bridesmaid, really."

He flicks the stub out into the street as Ginny calls from the kitchen.

She bites her lip until it bleeds. "The wife's calling."

Dinners at the Burrow are a necessity -

As they grow older, the calls die down, though they still are best friends. That's what they tell themselves.

They drink wine in the yard as they watch the children play.

"You have regrets?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Bet you wish you'd read 'Hogwarts, A History' one more time, don't you?"

She doesn't even smile, tips back the wine glass and feels the warmth burn through her.

"You're getting so good at that," he remarks, casually. "What does Ron think?"

She shrugs. "You're not the golden child either, you know." She chuckles. "The Boy Who Lived."

They've stopped pretending they can even hurt each other now.

* * *

Hermione leaves after twenty years of marriage; it's the straw on the camel's back, she says. It's too little, too much. It was everything.

Behind her back, Ginny complains to Harry, says things about why she left Ron. He tunes it out - he's dazed by the fact that she left him in the first place.

Joint custody says family court -

Hermione moves to central London and Ron never stops being bitter.

(They start to talk again.)

Ginny eyes him warily after Hermione's divorce - almost like she expects him to do something, expects something to happen.

They've stopped fighting ages ago - it's weariness now. He's tired of it all and she's tired of pretending that he even cares.

He's honestly surprised that she has an affair first.

When he brings the divorce papers, she's drinking Firewhiskey and her red hair tumbles past her shoulders. It looks unkempt.

He smokes a cigarette, even though he knows she hates it.

"Oh," she hums, low in her throat. "I've been expecting these for a while."

"You been shagging him for a while?"

"Don't lie to me, Harry." She takes another shot. "Like you thought I never noticed how you kept looking at each other? You've wanted each other since you were twelve. And I thought I could change you."

He smokes quietly, the burning of the filter paper the only noise.

"I shouldn't have to change for you. You wanted someone perfect. You wanted Harry Potter, the commodity, not the man."

"Well, who fucking knew Harry Potter the man was such a dick?"

"You did. The first time we broke up, the second, the third - you were as tired of it as I was. Why keep coming back?"

"I loved you, Harry."

"You didn't love me."

"Yeah, I married you because I didn't love you."

"You loved the money, and the attention."

She slaps him. "Hand me the fucking papers. The day these are finalized, you're going to go running straight to her, I know it."

He leaves and she keeps drinking.

(She doesn't even cry anymore. Not over him.)

* * *

The day she meets him in the park, her eyes are a little more wrinkled at the edges but her face is just as bright, her smile just as wide.

He brings the pumpkin juice this time.

She settles against him on a park bench.

He kisses the top of her head.

"I love you so much," he says.

She takes his hand. "Harry, what does it matter when we got here as long as we did? We managed."

He kisses the top of her head. "You're brilliant."

Hermione grins. "Can you believe it? We're finally getting married."

"And it'll just be us," he smiles. "Forever."

She squeezes his hand. "You are such a romantic."

He laughs. "Good thing I got over that teenage angst phase then, eh?"

She rolls her eyes. "Finally."

When she kisses him, her hair tickles his nose.

It snows.


End file.
